Fifty-three dollars...would you pay someone that much money every week to kill you?!?

Just back from biz in NYC, where I spent 4 days trying to bond with thecitythatatemysoul. I was unsuccessful. But did come to the conclusion that my soul can be bought. Maybe for the price of one jelly donut (someone get this reference, please).

I also blew a bunch of cash. Yeah, I was visiting and blah blah blah. But I think I have an addiction to yellow cabs (especially since now there is Diana and Sade giving me some of the softest news stories I've ever heard and they take debit and credit -- not Diana and Sade, the taxis). I could definitely feed 25 Somali children for 835 years for the amount I dropped on rides. And expensive coffee. And microwave popcorn. And sushi. And a prostitute. And a mani/pedi. And organic sorbet. Next time I'm there I'll have to play the "Can I walk out of [insert apartment at which I'm crashing -- Governor, you're next unless you are on the GBR, in which case maybe Johnny will let me have the closet and give me Halo lessons]'s place and not spend any money all day. Period."

Sadly, I'll think that game is a little too aggressive, so maybe I'll just cut the whores out of my budget. No whores and no taxis. Definitely no whores in taxis, b/c that's just asking for a VD.

Well, have you ever made love high?

Y'know, I go for years and years of my life without being told I look like someone famous (and no, Princess Fergie doesn't count) and then in the space of a couple of months get some strange comparisons dropped on me.

At my bro's engagement fiesta this past weekend, I was chatting with one of my dad's friend's who I had never met before. She's all dolled up in a teal velour (okay, maybe it was crushed velvet, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt) blazer and accosts me as if we've known each other for years when in fact I don't know her name. After telling me that she really digs Amsterdam because "I like the hash bars. Do you go to the hash bars? I really like the hash bars" she then drops "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Diane Keaton?"

WTF? I mean are we talking Diane Keaton who now does wrinkle commercials or Diane Keaton in Annie Hall or Diane Keaton in [insert recent movie title] when she is a divorcee? Not sure any of these options are ideal.

hmmmmmmmmmm (part 2)

I'm here to learn, everybody, not to make out with you. Go on with the chlorophyll!

Some of you have already heard this story. But in my typical style of loving to tell the same stories over and over and over and over and over again, suck it up and read on.

So I got all jazzed up about this potential trans-Atlantic lover coming over for a business trip. I've heard from a number of my friends who have slept and/or hooked up with married men (yes, there are more than one of you and no, being separated does count as being divorced) that an aged man is like fine wine. Well, this guy was like old cheese. Or old feet. Or old feet covered in old cheese.

Okay, that's a bit unfair -- he didn't smell or chew with his mouth open or anything. To (attempt) to be objective, he was a nice guy, not bad looking, intelligent (though a bad conversationalist), etc. I mean, a girl could do worse...

...until it got to the kiss...

This guy could win the "Worst Kisser in the World" contest by a landslide. And I don't mean the "try to do it really badly on purpose" contest or "get your friends to give you five dollars to make out with your other friend" contest. I mean just straight.up.FOUT (fout = wrong in Dutch. I have to learn it, so you do too). Since my first peck at age 10, it ain't never been this bad.

Imagine trying to press an elevator button with your tounge over and over and over and over and (putting etc. here wouldn't cut it...) over and to infinity and beyond! and over again. Now imagine someone pressing that elevator button in your mouth, where there isn't one. It was just....sad. I tried to slow it down, tilt the head, guide him in the right direction, but no! Where is the elevator?!? Keep pressing that button!

(I can see a woman divorcing a man over this -- but why the hell did she wait until after they had two kids? oooooh harsh)

Anyway, he didn't get past second base. He tried to kiss me again on Valentine's day and for the first time in my life I said "I'm not really in the mood" (okay, maybe not the first time, but close). I've never been so turned off in my life. I mean, guys do things that don't "work" but they usually find the plumbing before you know if they can handle the tools.

So, instead of "Obama or Hillary" or "Great Taste or Less Filling" the poll of the week is "Do you tell a man he is not a horribly rancid kisser if a) you never want to see him again and b) he's over 40?" I've heard "hell no, what's the point" but also that I'd "being doing him a favor."

Kick him when he's down or change his life forever? You be the judge.

That must be Nigel with the Brie

Health Legder is dead. While I won't go so far as to say this is a personal tragedy, there is a permanent place in my heart for 10 Things I Hate About You. Kathleen and I had a homage evening on Tuesday. I can tentatively say that is my favorite bad teen flick of all time.

On a related front, I was recently told that I look like Julia Styles. Now, she is about the size of my leg, has no tits, bad skin and bad teeth. And can't really act. But I'll take that comparison over "the fat chick from Can't Hardly Wait" any day.

Hmmmmm....

The evidence of the Dark Lord's return is incontrovertible

Happy (belated) New Year everybody! Back in Amsterdam and it's great to be home. It's also great to think of this place as home. I have pictures on the wall! And I have mice. I thought it was just one, who was handily taken care of by Govern when she was out here (yes, I am a girl), but I saw one scurry along the baseboard last night RIGHT AFTER my cleaning lady had been there (yes, I have a cleaning lady...or cleaning girl, she's like 27 and apparently moonlights as an ecstasy dealer. or is an ecstasy dealer that moonlights as a cleaning lady, not sure which one it is...). Anyway, considering a cat.

Things are picking up socially over here -- offset by the fact that I don't have a ton of work. Now that the Pats are playing the Giants, we might have a 1am Superbowl party to watch the game. Or we might DVR it and reenact Superbowl Sunday the following weekend. I mean, we really just want to order pizza and eat chips and salsa and be huge American gringos.

It does feel like a bunch of people I know are leaving my quaint city (the Dutch HATE it when you call it quaint, but it IS). Actually, only 2 folks are leaving (a colleague is moving to India and a workout buddy is going to Chicago) and my adorable intern has moved on, but since that's like 50% of my friends, I am again online friend dating. Actually, it's like listserve dating -- it's kinda neat. There are all these "young expats" who propose meeting up for stuff, usually having to do with alcohol consumption. Unfortunately, the last time they were all dorks. Or I was hammered. The world will never know.

Also, I could potentially have a trans-Atlantic sugar daddy in the works. But he's old. Like son abouttostartcollegerecruitingprocess old. Doesn't mean he ain't sexy, but well, he's definitely before the Star Wars generation and I'm definitely after.

I've finally got all the members of the immediate fam on board to visit this spring. Anyone else out there want to visit? Might want to hurry that up -- I might not be here for the intended 2+ years. Get your moochin' while it's hot.

I...am...death

I'm hungover.

Now that's on the table, a little stream of consciousness to brighten everyone's Friday. I leave tomorrow for the Tour de Force of los estados unidos. While I am excited to see everyone I am not excited to a) pack and b) get on plane. Thankfully, the remainder of a bottle of Kettle One and a little John Sinclair will help with a) and the over the counter French magic pills should handle b).

[ugh, not enough water or breakfast sandwiches in the world right now]

Belatedly, happy Thanksgiving to everyone. My Turkey Day was fantastic, mostly b/c it didn't involve Turkey at all, but rather copious amount of abuse to my body (which was awesome). Ex-roommate from the smallbutcentrallylocated apartment on Lex came out to the Dam. We rolled in to L&G's in Paris and proceeded to have all sort of fun eating cheese, making pies, drinking champagne, mashing potatoes, dropping pies, ingesting hallucinogens, clubbing under a bridge, watching Seinfeld, puking hallucinogens, talking in my sleep, eating leftovers, eating leftover, eating leftovers and killing bottles of vodka at a rate that would make any post-college semi-alcoholic proud. Though the train ride back to Amsterdam resembled a ride in a handbasket to hell, definitely one of the best Thanksgiving's ever. (others that rank up there include the Madrid Queso y Pan party and the year that my Grandfather decided he wanted lobster instead of Turkey).

See you all soon -- I've got U.S. digits now, so drop me a line if you don't have them. Happy holidays to you and yours. Pick up this line in January (oh yeah! one more update...had "the talk" with my boss lady. definitely signing on for another year! might get a cat! come visit! i fucking hate exclamation points!)

When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds...pretty standard really

Quick addition -- I just found out that one of my coworkers was Zwarte Pete this past week. This kid is tall, skinny, with bright blond hair and blue eyes...check out the dude on the right. Crazy!

Has anyone seen the show Californication with David Duchovny? If you haven't, do it. It's better than the X-Files (don't snicker, I liked that show) and they make lots of inappropriate references to pubic hair. This is my new Entourage.

Photos still have to wait because I have now misplaced the chord that plugs into the computer. I get bonus points for organisation. Instead, I will tell you the magically xenophobic story of Sinterklaas!

Sinterklaas is the "cousin" of Santa Claus and visits all the little Dutch girls and boys on December 5 instead of on December 25 [note: Sinterklaas is actually the "father" of Santa -- Santa stories in England, Germany and Scandanavia are thought to have originated from the Sinterklaas legend]. And how does Sinterklaas deliver all the presents to all the homes? Firstly, Sinterklaas does not live in the North Pole, he lives in Spain, so it's not quite so long of a trip (he takes a steam boat over). And, the pragmatic people of the Netherlands gave him "helpers" (until recently called slaves) which run around and deliver all the presents for him. All his helpers are all named Zwarte Pete (Black Pete) -- at first I imagined something like the Oompa Loompa from the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie where they all look the same, but I was way off.

All the Petes are in fact supposed to be black (hence the recent PC trading of the term "slave" for "helper"). To portray Pete in the parades, the Dutch paint their faces black. It is a little bit uh, alarming, to see all these supposedly forward-thinking, tolerant, blue-eyed Dutch running around in black face. [Aside: Zwarte Pete supposedly wasn't invented to demean black people. In "real" history, he is thought to originally have been an Ethiopian slave who was freed by Saint Nicholas and then stayed with the saint out of gratitude.]

But back to the story. Unlike our Santa, Sinterklaus wears a bishop's outfit with a red hat and cloak, but he does have white hair and a white beard. For the week or so leading up to December 5, children put their shoes close to the fireplace before they go to bed and also set out water and sometimes a carrot. During the night, Sinterklaas/Pete places gifts such as chocolate coins, poems (wtf? who wants a poem for Christmas?) and papernoten (super tasty mini spice cookies which can also come covered in dark, milk and white chocolate) in the shoes of the good children. If you are bad, a Pete will put you in his burlap carrying sack and take you back to Spain!